Chapter 1

On Valentine's Day, Brandon sent me a money transfer via PayPal.

Five dollars and twenty cents.

The note attached read: Love you tons.

I took a screenshot and sent it to my besties' group chat, teasingly boasting about my husband's sweet romantic gesture.

Three minutes later, the screen of his iPad on his study desk lit up.

A notification popped up right before my eyes.

A message from Chloe: Babe, just got the $52,000! You're so sweet to me. The best ever.

I stood frozen in front of that tablet for what felt like eternity. The screen dimmed, lit up again with another prompt, and went dark once more.

$5.20 versus $52,000.

A difference of exactly ten thousand times.

Yet what truly squeezed the breath out of my lungs wasn't the staggering gap in money.

It was the fact that while he sent me a casual "Love you tons," his note attached to her payment had been simply: Missing you.

I placed the iPad back where it was.

I opened the notification for Brandon's $5.20 transfer and typed back four words: Best husband ever. Thanks.

"Are you coming home for dinner tonight?"

I texted Brandon again.

His reply was instantaneous: Working late. Don't wait up.

I stared at those cold words, then glanced at the unread preview lingering on his synced tablet.

Chloe had just sent him a selfie with the caption: Waiting for you to pick me up.

His reply to her had been: Be right there.

To me, it was overtime. To her, it was on his way.

The timestamps between those two messages were forty seconds apart.

I locked the iPad, sank onto the couch, and poured myself a glass of ice water.

We had been married for seven years.

Brandon and I built this tech company from scratch, starting in a dusty, freezing garage with two beat-up laptops, and turning it into a venture now valued at forty million dollars.

I was the one who wrote the proprietary core algorithm. Every single line of clean, robust code was born from my sleepless nights.

He was the face of the business—networking, pitching to angel investors, schmoozing clients over fancy dinners.

To the outside world, we were the ultimate power couple: happily married, wildly successful.

To myself, I looked like a pathetic joke.

At eleven o'clock, the front door unlocked.

Brandon kicked off his designer oxfords quietly. His tie was loosened, one more collar button undone than when he left this morning.

I remained curled up on the couch. The television was on, muted.

"Still awake?" He paused by the entryway.

"Waiting for you."

He walked over, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on my forehead.

A lingering trace of bourbon hit my senses, tangled up with an unfamiliar, powdery floral perfume.

"It's Valentine's Day, and all you gave me was five bucks?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

He chuckled, dropping onto the couch beside me and draping an arm across the backrest.

"5.20 sounds like 'I love you,' sweetie. It's subtle and romantic. You really want me to be like those tacky corporate finance bros flashing gaudy grand bouquets and showing off wire transfers?"

"Then how do you explain the $52,000 you sent Chloe?"

"What fifty-two thousand?" He turned his head toward me, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Your iPad is synced with your messages."

Brandon froze for a second, then let out an amused scoff.

"That was a marketing expense. Chloe is the brand consultant we just retained. We had to prepay for our upcoming holiday launch campaign. Going through a personal transfer is ten times faster than waiting on corporate accounting."

"A marketing expense with the memo 'Missing you'?"

"You misread it."

"I have twenty-twenty vision, Brandon."

Brandon stood up abruptly, turning his back to me as he ripped off his tie.

"Harper, have you literally got nothing better to do lately? You're snooping through my iPad now? Reading my private texts? You're my wife, not my parole officer."

I parted my lips, a bitter comeback on the tip of my tongue.

He cut me off before I could speak.

"If you don't trust me, then maybe this marriage isn't working out anyway. Think about what you really want."

He grabbed his change of clothes and stormed into the master bathroom, slamming the door shut.

I sat alone in the living room, listening to the rushing sound of the shower.

His phone sat face-down on the coffee table.

I didn't reach for it.

Not because I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but because I knew it was utterly pointless.

He had definitely purged whatever he didn't want me to see by now.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, and walked straight into the bedroom.

He didn't spare me a single glance as he brushed past.

I switched off the TV and walked out onto the balcony.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

A text from Brandon: Go to sleep. Don't overthink things. I'll take you out for a nice dinner tomorrow to make up for Valentine's Day.

I stared at the screen and left it on read.

From the bedroom, another faint vibration hummed. The balcony door wasn't clicked completely shut, and through the glass, his muffled voice carried in the night breeze.

"Yeah, she's fine. Just threw a tiny tantrum, nothing to worry about. Get some rest. I'll swing by your place tomorrow."

His tone was gentle, soothing, and warm—the complete opposite of the icy contempt he'd just shown me.

I pushed the balcony door closed, grabbed a plush throw from the armchair, and lay down on the sofa.

In seven years of marriage, this was the first night I slept on the couch.

Not out of spite.

Simply because that sickening perfume clinging to our sheets would make it impossible to sleep a wink.

Before closing my eyes, I moved the screenshot of Chloe's notification into a password-protected folder in the cloud.

The screen dimmed.

In the pitch-black silence, Brandon made another brief call from the bedroom.

He kept his voice hushed this time, but I still caught his parting words clearly:

"Don't worry. She has no leverage anyway."